Like a longing gone without a trace
by LizzieSiddal
Summary: It was a moment of weakness on her part. That's all there is to it. (Tom/Mary. Set in 1933. Partly AU in that I am pretending Mary and Henry Talbot never married. WIP.)
1. Chapter 1

For a moment, Mary does not quite recognize herself in the mirror. There's an angry flush to her skin and she looks wild, eyes as wide as saucers. God knows what she might be able to do about her hair without Anna, but she'll try. It's fine. Everything is fine. She sprays water on her face, trying not to notice the way her hands are trembling.

There's a mark on her clavicle, and another one, thankfully less noticeable, higher up her neck. Just like her treacherous skin to betray her. Will her scarf cover it? She hopes so.

There's a pile of clothes on the floor, that she grabbed herself out of her suitcase moments ago, after leaving the bed. She hopes they will not be too wrinkled. The blouse buttons at the front, thankfully, as she has to dress herself this morning. It's fine. She can do this. They had better be early for the train, they can't afford to miss it. Taking some extra time to get ready in private is a good idea. She can wake him up later.

She is most definitively not thinking of crawling back under the sheets with him, of having him in her own bed back at Downton every day – her cold widow's bed, where Mattew's absence lingers stubbornly.

No. She is not thinking about Matthew, not now. This was a holiday of sorts, an indulgence if you will, and no ghosts are allowed.

She has been quite nervous lately. Unhappy, perhaps. He suggested the trip in the end, and why would anyone object? She was supposed to be paying social calls, and he was supposed to be handling business regarding the estate, and it was hardly their first time travelling to London together, so it did not raise any eyebrows.

And if they stopped for a further day in a lovely – and perfectly discreet – inn on their way back, well, who was to know or care?

She doesn't know how long she spends in that bathroom, but she cannot stay in there forever. She opens and closes the door as carefully as she can, and softly steps into the bedroom. It's flooded in the bright light of the morning. She can't exactly deny what went on last night under this light.

It's really quite unfair, she thinks, how handsome he still is. But then again, she finds time treats men more kindly. Oh, she knows she can still put on a show - haughty and elegant will always come to her easily – but it takes longer every day to prim and fuss in front of the mirror until she is happy with her reflection. Her thin face threatens to turn gaunt with age; the slender figure she was once so proud of seems to be growing softer with each year. But Tom, graying hair, extra pounds and all, is still disarmingly boyish under the morning light.

She wants to touch him so badly. She barely has since she opened her eyes. Absurdly enough, considering what they have done, only their elbows were touching when she woke up, and that had been enough to send her bolting out of bed.

'Don't want to get up,' he mumbles at last, eyes still closed.

In another world, a world where the clock is agreeable enough to stop turning when prompted, they might never leave this bed. A fine world it would be, where happiness was uncomplicated, unburdened by grief and guilt, where responsibilities would be happy to wait patiently behind a closed door without complaint. But that has never been the world they live in.

'We probably should leave soon, though,' is what she says. She swallows her silly hopes and fantasies. It's easier this way.

He looks at her at that but she won't quite meet his eyes. He knows too much, knows her too well. He can see right through her, and God knows what he will see.

'You are dressed already.'

'I thought I'd get started before. Wouldn't want us to miss the train.' Is that her voice? It doesn't sound like her voice. She hopes, rather desperately, that he does not touch her: this was an indulgence she cannot afford. Any more, she thinks, and putting herself together would be impossible: her skin would show the cracks. Everyone would know, as surely as if it were written on her face.

Lady Mary Crawley, not-quite Countess of Grantham, does not walk about with her heart on her sleeve like a love-sick girl. She is too old to play the fool.

To be fair, she kissed him first. She doesn't know why she is impatient with him, why she keeps snapping at him while he drags their luggage into the station, when she only has herself to blame. She has never been one to make the first move, but then, she never thought herself the kind of woman who would want to sleep with her dead sister's husband, and here she is. Even after a certain age, one still retains the ability to surprise oneself, it would seem.

He is so warm and kind with her - he has been a comfort to her for so long in so many other ways. It didn't feel thrilling or illicit or dangerous when she kissed him, that's the thing: only natural, the most natural thing in the world.

'I don't feel guilty,' he will say later, as they board the train back.

He looks scared out of his wits, but he meets her eyes head on. 'I know I should, but I don't. We haven't been happy in so long; how could our finding happiness together be so terrible? Who would begrudge us that? Haven't we suffered long enough?'

'It does not matter,' she says evenly, because apparently he is going to have this conversation right now no matter how she feels about it.

'Mary, it _does_ matter,' he insists, voice rising, and she knows she has to put an end to this, and she has to do it now.

'I do not wish to discuss our reasons for doing this or how others might judge us for it. You tell me you do not judge yourself and I half want to believe you, but others would judge, Tom, they would if they knew; you are not stupid enough to pretend otherwise. I too am glad it happened, however selfish it may make me. But it cannot happen again. We both know that.'

He frowns, jaw set, but does not argue back. She feels the tension radiate off him, and reaches for his hand. It is foolish surely, but they are alone for a little while longer and she needs him to understand. He is her ally in so many things; they have been on the same page for so long, a disagreement between them seems unthinkable now.

'What we have is important to me. But this? This leads nowhere,' she sees him cringe but soldiers on, voice firm. She knows what she has to say, and she _will_ say it even though she doesn't want to.

'I won't be your mistress, Tom. And you can't exactly expect me to be your wife.'

For a moment he looks as if she's struck him. He draws breath to answer back, then seems to think better of it. The objection Mary is half dreading, half hoping for never comes. She thinks of Sybil, brave, brilliant, carefree Sybil, and of the hot-headed young chauffeur who wouldn't take no for an answer, so different from this man who now won't look at her.

'So,' she says at last, carefully untangling her fingers from his. 'We understand each other.'

He smiles at her, an ugly, unconvincing thing. She pretends not to see the spark of anger in his eyes. 'Don't we always.'

'Good.'

They spend the rest of the trip in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Oh, Mary, dear Mary: I only make things difficult for you because I care (and let's be honest: she is a handful)**

 **Now, dear readers, I might as well own up to it: I do not have the energy for giving every single character on this show the plot and character development they deserve, so you will find the cast greatly reduced and many pushed to the sidelines. That said, I needed to give Thomas Barrow a position of authority and a satisfying love life off-camera because I love him too much to neglect him.**

" _Dear mother_ ," writes George Crawley, future Earl of Grantham. Mary is pleased to note that his appalling cursive has much improved, which is just as well, considering the fortune they are paying on tuition. " _I hope you are well, and so are Grandpapa, Grandmother Cora and Uncle Tom. Send them my regards. Do_ _not_ _send my regards to Sybbie, for she insists on pestering me about my school work and it is time she realized I am not a child anymore and very busy and she is a girl, and she cannot do my assignments better than I can myself._

 _"_ _Do not trouble yourself with any stories that may have reached you. I assure you my marks are excellent. I am indeed behaving in the manner you'd expect of a Crawley (and eating my greens, if you must know)."_

'What has you all smiling today?' Tom's forced cheer brings her back to reality as he sits down for breakfast. He's been like this for weeks and it's growing tiresome; he is a terrible actor, and the more he tries to pretend everything is fine between them, the less convincing it is. He is lucky there are few witnesses to this awkwardness; were her grandmother alive, or, God forbid, Edith on a visit, they'd probably see everything written on Tom's face.

Well. Truth be told, Barrow is there every morning and she is fairly sure nothing escapes him, but after decades of living under the same roof they have forged a mutually beneficial arrangement where Mary pretends not to hear any untoward gossip about her butler's _close friend_ in the village and he keeps his sharp tongue and sharper ears firmly in check. Sure enough, Barrow is all smiles when pouring tea, having mastered the art of dignified deference while emanating disdain over everything Tom Branson chooses to be. It is an arch look she often glimpses in Sybbie and George's faces – she chooses to believe they have learnt it from Barrow. (No one has accused her of self-awareness yet.)

"It is George, writing from school. He sends his regards."

Both men look up at the same time. The warmth in Tom's face is undeniably genuine now, and Mary's irritation abates somewhat.

"Is Young Master George doing well at school, milady?" asks Barrow, always unable to mask his favoritism.

"Quite. He wonders whether the hunt for the new cook is going well and whether you have driven any young applicant to tears. What shall I tell him?"

"Service is not quite what it used to be, milady. Only the most qualified will do."

"So, five, at the very least?" she replies indifferently, pointedly avoiding Tom's eye. Barrow is not quite crass enough to snort, but he'd plainly like to.

"If only we had had five applicants, milady. Finding qualified employees is ever so hard now when young women would much prefer to be shop girls or some other nonsense."

"Quite," she looks at Tom then, because why draw out the inevitable really. "Apparently news of Sybbie's adventures have reached his ears. He now insists we keep his room locked so she does not steal his books and that he is perfectly capable of doing his own Latin assignments without his cousin's help."

Tom, predictably, looks proud rather than abashed. "She _is_ very smart – though I suppose she shouldn't rub it in George's face at every available opportunity."

"Well, you are obviously hopeless to stop it, and I suppose I can be overly indulgent with the girl as well."

"I would not say ´hopeless´. But I do encourage my daughter to grow up free-thinking and independent, if that is what you are implying."

Head-strong and wild would be more like it. "Ah, yes, a modern woman. Like the oh-so-educated ladies who read Edith's magazine. God knows we old-fashioned women who were taught to know our place are just dreadfully inadequate role-models."

"I have never said that," Tom snaps, doing a very poor job of masking his irritation. "No one could tell you to know your place and live to tell it, for once. I only said that it would be good for her to be educated in a different way to how her mother and her aunts were raised. I never intended to-"

She doesn't know why she sees red, but she does. She loves her niece, knows Tom is a good father with good intensions, but suddenly none of that matters. She has an argument to win.

"You cannot say no to her, you never could. She wanted to go to the village school with the other children and you arranged it for her, never mind that it was a complete disaster. She keeps saying no to every school we have found for her. And still, the girl wants to go to university, and if she wanted to go to the Moon, you'd arrange that too. She's a sweet child, but too head-strong for her age- why, she tells you to jump and you ask-"

"Good morning, Miss Sybbie," says Barrow, loud and clear. Mary swallows her words and forces herself to look away from Tom.

Her beloved niece, twelve and impetuous and with a face so like her mother it still throws Mary off some days, skips towards Barrow and all but bats her eyelashes at him.

"Any post for me, Mr. Barrow?"

Tom is useless to resist her, her grandfather does not fare much better, and their butler simply has no choice in the matter: every man in the household bows to that girl's whims. Barrow quickly produces two letters and a larger envelope with a flourish.

"Thank you, Mr. Barrow," she says, and makes a show of sitting at the table as demurely and lady-like as she can, the very picture of innocence, which invariably means she has heard every word they were saying.

"Good morning, Sybil," Tom says pointedly.

"Hm? Good morning, Dad. Aunt Mary." The girl distractedly eyes her correspondence (a short letter from George, a longer one that must be from her Aunt Rose) and seems to find the larger envelope in particular much more fascinating than the adults around her. Mary watches her pretty face light up as she pulls out a little bound volume.

"Look at what Aunt Edith sent me!" she exclaims, holding the little book up for Tom's inspection. Tom seems to have decided Mary does not exist anymore, and has angled his body deliberately towards his daughter, indulgent smile firmly in place. It does not escape Mary that he is still gripping his fork and knife so hard he may well snap them.

"Is it one of those wholly inappropriate novels she keeps insisting you should read?" she inquires.

"No, Aunt Mary, it's a diary! See? The pages are all blank."

"Since when do you keep a diary?" asks Tom.

"Since now, of course! Every lady should keep a diary."

"Should they now? I was not aware."

"Yes, they should! Aunt Edith agrees it is an excellent idea. Every proper lady should keep a diary to record their thoughts and feelings! To encourage wisdom and reflection. To document the exciting events in their lives!"

"That sounds like rather trying work," Mary drawls. Everything sounds like trying work when Edith is concerned, it should be said, though Sybbie seems to find her aunt's talk of the hustle and bustle of London, with its editors and adverts and fashion plates, endlessly fascinating. She probably got her hands on an issue of that magazine again and is parroting whatever silly nonsense Edith's people are writing about now.

She has almost forgotten she was angry at Tom – disapproving of Edith's life choices is quite time-consuming after all- when he suddenly cuts off Sybbie's little monologue.

"It strikes me as an important thing, too. To know one's feelings and have the necessary eloquence and maturity – and the _courage_ to express them."

Mary looks up. Tom's eyes are hard, and they are fixed on her. He is still smiling placidly.

"That is exactly how I see it, Dad!"

"Perhaps your Aunt could keep a diary too. Surely she would find the experience very educational and rewarding."

"It strikes me as a ridiculous waste of time for a grown woman," Mary says through her teeth.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Aunt Mary!"

"Perhaps Aunt Edith can get Aunt Mary a diary for herself. I am sure an outlet for her frustrations would do her a world of good," Tom continues.

"I hm – I could write to her? If Aunt Mary wishes?" no one is looking at Sybbie now.

"Barrow, is my father coming down for breakfast today?" Mary can hear the ice in her own voice.

'I believe so, milady, but I could go upstairs and inquire if you would like,' Barrow replies smoothly.

'Please do. He may be tired today, so do insist it is no trouble and he can take his breakfast upstairs if he wishes."

"Perhaps you would like to keep your Grandfather company, Sybbie," Tom adds.

"Uh. I only just sat down?"

"Be a dear and go with Mr. Barrow, Sybbie. You heard your father."

"I am not a child to be sent out of the room every time something needs to be disc-"

"Sybil. Please."

"Sybbie you heard your father-"

"Yes, Mary, she heard me just fine, _thank you_."

There is nothing lady-like about the way the girl stomps out of the room, Barrow trailing behind her. They don't move until they hear the door snap closed.

"Where were we?"

God, how tiresome this whole thing is. "I don't know and I don't much care. We have a busy day ahead visiting farmers today and no time to waste. In case you don't recall, our financial situation is rather dire. How do you propose we fix this? Should we write to an agony aunt? Hold hands? Talk about our _feelings_?"

"I think it's about time we lay our cards on the table, Mary."

"I don't know what _card_ you imagine I am hiding. I suggest you clear your head."

" _My_ head?!"

"I am perfectly calm."

"You are unbelievable."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"What do you think? What could possibly be bothering me, I wonder? How about you finding fault with everything I say or do? How about us not talking for three weeks because every time I try to bring up the subject I am suddenly irrational-?!"

"Well, you _are_ irrational. Would you stop shouting already!"

He is up on his feet in an instant, throwing his crumpled napkin on the table. "I cannot work with you. I cannot live with you. I can barely stand being in the same room with you as it is. So good luck with those farmers, because you are going without me."

"Tom would you calm down-"

"I am NOT calming down, Mary. I've had it – you either look at me in the face and we address what you don't want to address or it's done. If you want me gone, you might as well say it."

"What do you mean if I want you gone? I don't want you gone, that's preposterous! No one wants you gone!"

"Then why have you been treating me like dirt? If you think we made a mistak-"

 _No._ They are not doing this. They are not doing this in the dining room, of all places, with _his daughter_ listening on the other side of the door for all she knows. "We are not having this conversation here. Be reasonable."

"We are not having this conversation here, or there, or in the office, or in the village, or anywhere else because you've been avoiding me. Very well. Avoid me to your heart's content – God forbid we make a scene!"

He storms out in a rage at that, before she can even think of stopping him. She is left frozen in her seat, staring at the remains of their suddenly unappealing breakfast and quite unable to process what has happened.

Well. If he wants to leave, let him leave. He has been a bomb about to go off for these three weeks and she cannot live in anticipation of what it will take for him to finally explode. Let him have his tantrum now – at least most of it was done without an audience. Mary has things to do today, important things, and she is not letting Tom Branson get in the way of what needs to be done. She gets up carefully, straightens her skirt, adjusts her gloves and she is out of the door herself, almost running into Barrow, whose innocent face leaves much to be desired.

"I'll be back for tea," she announces, and she is out of the house without another word.


	3. Chapter 3

And now, an uncomfortable epiphany, or How To Talk Yourself Into An Emotional Breakdown, by Lady Mary Crawley

 **Author's note: If I were a better writer, this would feature more background into how on earth Mary and Tom managed to steer Downton to survive the economic upheaval of the 1926-1932 period – which occurs off camera. If I were a better writer, Anna would have her own storyline and her own problems (which would 100% not include trouble with the law) instead of playing Only Sane Woman for these ridiculous aristocrats. If I were a better writer, Tom Branson would be too busy writing / getting involved in local politics / flirting with female car racers to even look at his prickly and difficult sister-in-law twice. If I were a better writer, the Sybbie Branson would be this story's star, and the downstairs staff would all run away from this sinking ship of fading privilege to have more exciting adventures elsewhere. But this is fanfiction written by a person who has faith in Mary's better qualities despite all evidence to the contrary, and is thus ultimately self-indulgent at heart. You've all been warned.**

Mary's day is a nightmare from beginning to end. No good news to be found, only complaints, deadlines they cannot meet and money that keeps slipping through her fingers. She used to be proud of what they had accomplished; just keeping Downton afloat was an achievement in itself, considering the fate of most neighbouring estates. But now, it all seems hopeless: what exactly will be left by the time her son comes of age? How could she possibly hope to shoulder this mess by herself?

She locks herself in the office and tries not to give in to despair. This is the moment Tom would come in. They would draw up a plan, and no matter how dire the situation seemed, he would find a way around it, suggest an avenue that might help them stay afloat a while longer. Increasingly in these last few years, it has been _her_ idea that helped them whether the incoming storm – so why does the future seem so bleak now?

She can picture Tom so clearly, coming into the office to sit on the opposite chair. Tired but determined after a fast-paced walk across the fields. The outdoors has always agreed with him: his eyes always look brighter and bluer, his face glowing and open after the exercise. They have spent so many summer mornings like that, and something about his generous smile and his hopeful eyes and her foolish desire to impress him with her new found competence at some point led her to believe that she could do this. That they could keep the place that by all rights should be hers afloat together by a combination of ingenuity and sheer force of will.

 _He is going to leave. For good_. The thought has been rearing its ugly head all morning and she hates herself again for her weakness. The matter is of no consequence – truly, it's not worth worrying about. Tom will get that awful temper of his in check and he'll be back tomorrow. And all will be well.

He is right about one thing, though: things have been wrong between them since _that night_. But what's done is done; what good can obsessing over it do?

 _You were better off before_ , she tells herself bitterly. It was easier to be lonely, and let her thoughts stray from time to time, but have him by her side in the end. He is her friend, her ally, her confidant, the closest thing to a father George has had in these few years, her partner in every way that matters. When did she start thinking she could gamble all of that away? He will leave Downton, and take dear Sybbie with him, and she'll be left alone with her aging parents, waiting for the school term to be over so her son could come to her again for a few weeks, struggling to preserve a legacy that is slipping through her fingers day by day. And all for what? For an inconvenient infatuation? Finding comfort in his arms? She should have stayed as before, stealing moments of solitude to wonder what it would be like to kiss him, alone in her bed at night, even if guilt and shame threatened to swallow her whole. She knows what kissing him feels like now – _you know a lot more than that_ , a treacherous voice in her head points out- and what good has that done, exactly? She was better off not knowing, back when it was nothing but playful, meaningless flirting and easy affection, when she would greedily save the memories of those few moments when she thought she could see a spark of interest in his eyes.

God, what a fool she's been.

She looks down at the desk, at the pile of letters to answer, the mess of maps and notes, checks and balances, and anguish rises up suddenly in her throat. She can't stay there any longer, trapped and alone with no hope in sight. Tom is not coming back, not today, and perhaps not tomorrow either, and it is no one's fault but her own.

She is back before tea in the end. She goes straight to her room, steps measured and back straight, closes the door and rings for Anna. She doesn't know how long she stays sitting at her vanity staring numbly at her own reflection, but the moment she feels Anna's hand touch her shoulder softly and hears the concern in her voice something awful comes lose inside her. She breaks into tears with terrifying abandon.

"Lady Mary! Oh, Lady Mary, what is it? What is wrong?"

She can barely get a hold of herself to answer. She cries and cries, her whole body shaking with it. "Oh, Anna, Anna, I've done something very foolish."

"Whatever it is, you know you can tell me. Please calm down."

She has to say it. Why deny it? She needs to talk to someone, and there's no one else she can confide in. She lets Anna rub her back, brush the hair out her eyes and help her with her jacket and carefully avoids glancing at the mirror. She can't even imagine what she must look like now. She is watching Anna put away her tear-stained jacket with her back to her when she blurts out the shameful truth: "I spent the night with him."

"Him?"

"Tom Branson, Anna. When we went off to London last month."

She has never been more mortified than she is now, with a woman she has grown to count as a dear friend staring at her as if she does not know her.

"You might like to sit down," she offers awkwardly. Anna lowers herself on her bed as if on a daze.

"You and Mr. Branson, milady?" she plainly wants to say more and doesn't quite dare. The whole shameful story stumbles out anyway: their going to dinner together, her shameless flirting, the dancing, how it had all seem so fun, like a game with no consequences. How she kissed him first. How she might have broken his heart that morning on the train when she could barely look at him. She has now lost her dearest friend, her closest ally, and it is all her fault. It's a betrayal of his trust, of Matthew and Sybil's memories, of her family entire. And now he is leaving! It's all ruined. All of it, for good.

"You probably despise me now," she finishes. "And I deserve it. It's the worst thing I have involved you in.'

"Do not be offended, milady, but I hardly think so. At least there's no corpse to dispose of this time around."

She wants to laugh but all she can accomplish is another heaving sob. She lets Anna dry her tears, going as limp as a toddler after a particularly trying tantrum.

"May I ask you something?"

"What else could you possibly want to know after that? Every sordid detail?" she is behaving appallingly, she knows, but there's no stopping this flood of self-pity now that it has started.

"Just one thing. Do you love him?"

"Of course I love him. Everyone knows that. He is family, we've raised George and Sybbie together. He has been a good friend to me for years."

"But are you in love with him, milady?"

Her mind goes blank _._ She looks at Anna, helpless and terrified.

"Why would that matter," she blurts out in a panic. "We can't. That's obvious. It should be obvious to everyone."

Anna is smiling, and somehow making her feel all of five years old. "I understand it would take us all a while to get used to the idea," she says softly. "And perhaps people who do not know Mr. Branson as we do might find it scandalous. But it seems to me it is not as terrible as you are making it sound. You know each other so well, and you care very much for each other. And there's no impediment –" she stops suddenly. "At least I think there's no impediment. It is legal, isn't it?"

"You mean-"

It's Anna's time to look flustered. "Marriage, milady. I mean, assuming…"

"It's legal," she confirms quickly, cheeks burning. She will not admit that she has checked.

Twice.

"Well, there you go. You may have…. _handled things poorly_ , at the time, but I cannot believe he would not return your affections, milady. He is a good man who respects you very much."

"He is so cold to me now. He never used to be like this with me - I do not know how to make this better. He is going to leave, Anna. He is going to leave and take Sybbie and it's all my fault."

"Well, it seems to me just talking to him about what has happened, about your worries… well, that is much better than punishing him for whatever's between you."

"I wouldn't even know how to-"

"Like you have with me, milady. Just be honest. He knows you well and you've seen each other through very trying times; he would not judge you. With men… well, I may not have much experience to draw from, other than dear Mr. Bates, of course, but it seems to me expecting them to know how you feel and how you would want them to act without saying anything is a doomed venture. Do you feel better now, milady?"

She does, that's the strange thing. Nothing has been resolved, for all she knows Tom still despises her, and yet she feels like an enormous weight has been lifted off her chest.


	4. Chapter 4

"Burning with Lust, Guilt and Class Anxiety: the Tom Branson Story"

 **Author's note: this is a monster of a scene compared to the others, but once these crazy kids finally started talking they just would not shut up.**

By now, Tom is can get through uncomfortable dinners in his sleep: he makes small talk with Robert, follows Cora's story with an encouraging smile, tries to distract Sybbie and deliberately avoids any potentially dangerous topic (his daughter's education, British foreign policy, the meeting he missed that day, which priceless painting is doomed for the Auction House before the end of the year) with all the grace of a man waltzing effortlessly on a minefield. It's not a skill he ever hoped he would develop, yet here he is.

And, above all, he looks at Mary – quiet, sullen, pale Mary - as little as he can get away with.

They have all retired for the evening now, yet he is still there. He's never done this on his own – dismiss the last servant himself and stay nursing his scotch in front of the fire. Even after so many years in Downton it feels strange; what right does he have to command one of the fine rooms of the ground floor all to himself? In his darkest moods, he would go up to his bedroom, which was still finer than anything he had known in his early life, but at least felt undeniably his own. Nothing feels like it may be his right now.

He stays down here with Mary, sometimes, when there are no visitors – or at least he used to, before. It's a routine that inspired easy companionship, whispered confidences and shared worries – a routine they should never have indulged in, perhaps, considering where it has led them. He can't stay in his room and spend night after night hoping she will knock on his door, and he will not go to her himself no matter how badly he wants to, so he is stuck here instead. And if he's hoping she will come down, eyes soft and apologetic, her hair mussed from sleep… well, it only goes to show how much of a fool he is. These days, he only sees Mary with her finest armor, ready for battle: the sharp restricting lines of her outfits when they run errants side by side suggest none of the soft skin beneath. Her dark eyes betray nothing, her voice doesn't break. Each comment that passes her lips drips with sarcasm and scorn. When she is like this, it seems unthinkable to talk to her, let alone touch her.

What does this say about him, about his character, that he knows all too well she can be a mean, vain, controlling nightmare of a woman and none of that makes him want her any less? That he's squandered every chance of making a name for himself outside of Downton, and has instead chosen to stick by her side through thick and thin? Truly, he'd be better off thinking her cold and snobbish; perhaps if this were so he would have taken Sybbie away with a clean conscience years ago.

But try as he might, he knows there's more to his sister-in-law than the spoilt creature he would drive to her fittings so long ago, a woman he can barely recall ever knowing. It's easier these days to picture the line of her back when she lets down her guard, when it curves gently as she bows her head and the nape of her neck is exposed. He thinks of her tired and mellow, those moments of private indulgence they have sometimes shared, when he'd see her bend to remove her evening shoes and sweetly curl up on the settee in front of the fire. The long stretch of pale flesh, the unveiling of a sharp elbow and an elegant wrist, the caress of silk as her gloves slid off her arms. The image is burnt behind his eyelids and comes unbidden every night, has since this madness started: he longs to undo every button at the back of those elaborate gowns with the patience of a saint, kissing every knob of her spine in silent apology should the fine fabric tear under his clumsy fingers.

He downs the rest of his drink in one gulp and pretends the heat that spreads around his body comes only from the burn of the scotch. He is a grown man but he might as well be in his twenties still, foolish and hopeful and determined to wait for a girl out of his reach. Would his dear Sybil understand? There was such love and generosity in her heart, he likes to think she would forgive him, perhaps even gently mock him. She could also see the good in Mary, far before he ever could.

"Do you intend to stay here all night?" He turns around, and there she is: still dressed for dinner, pale and severe.

"Would it matter to you terribly if I did?"

She steps into the room cautiously. If he didn't know better he would think she was afraid of him, which is too ridiculous to contemplate; Mary Crawley fears no man.

"Would you care for a drink?"

"No. It's fine. I'd rather you didn't drink any more either."

"I am not drunk, Mary. I will not embarrass you."

When did she get close enough to him to pry the glass from his hand? He is so surprised he lets her guide him to the sofa as she sits in the chair opposite him. He can barely read her expression in the dim light.

"Will you really leave us? You've been so odd tonight" she asks with uncharacteristic candor.

'You've been odd all month,' he answers back. Perhaps he can be the petty, difficult one tonight, for a change.

She lowers her eyes and his hand goes to her chin without thinking, tilting her face towards him. He hasn't touched her in far too long. He is expecting her to recoil, like she has every time they have brushed sleeves accidentally in these three weeks, but she doesn't – their eyes lock as his hand slips and ghosts across the column of her neck. For a moment he can feel her pulse fluttering furiously.

"I suppose I owe you an explanation."

"That you do."

"'I thought things would be easier if I pulled away for a while," she says carefully. "That perhaps, with some distance, I could make things better. The way they should be. Instead I only seem to have made you angry."

 _You implied I was a fool for thinking you could ever want to be with me_ , he thinks bitterly. But he will not be humiliated twice. "Did it work, for you? Did it make things better?" he asks instead. He moves his hand away.

She has the decency to look embarrassed. 'No. It's only made me sad and angry at myself. So… that's two people I've made miserable, I suppose.'

"I am not sure distance would make us any happier. But it would greatly decrease the likelihood of shouting matches at breakfast, if that's what concerns you so much."

"The truth is I'd rather have you here, yelling at me, than away."

He told himself he wouldn't ask again, but he has to: "Mary… do you regret it? Is that what this is about?"

"I will regret it if you and Sybbie leave Downton over it."

"You know what I am asking."

"It was a foolish thing, what we did. I… was feeling lonely, and you were close and it seemed easy, at the time. I wasn't thinking. It has become so difficult to meet suitable men as I have grown older; you joke about my many suitors but that was before – there aren't many men who would show interest in a widow my age with a young son, a woman who will not leave her family home and who has more debts that she knows what to do with. I admit I enjoyed your interest in me – I am not blind. It made me feel good about myself, desirable… but I should not have toyed with you. The truth is I was sure I had ruined our friendship."

Is this what he had been? The last one in a long line of fools? "Every single man in that restaurant we went to was looking at you when we walked in; you will always turn heads. I am hardly the only man in the world left for you to flirt with."

He is expecting her to argue back, but she stays silent and looks up at him pleadingly. Well, if she wants him to save her from an uncomfortable moment, she is out of luck. He is not making any excuses for her, not anymore.

"Whatever it is that you are not saying, I want to hear it."

"It's not like any man would do," she snaps. "It was _your_ attention I wanted. I just… chose to ignore the consequences. And in the morning, those consequences were suddenly impossible to ignore. I needed time to think and I - well, you know what happened."

"Yes, I was there."

"Don't look at me like that. I was upset and wanted to undo everything we'd done."

"If it was time you wanted, you should have said so."

"Because you would have waited? You are as hot-headed as you were when you first came here when your heart is at stake."

"Mary, this dance we've been doing this month – this has to stop. You can't lock me out of your life just because it is inconvenient, or because you are afraid. Stop lashing out at me because it is easier!"

He sees her tense and for a moment thinks she might storm off, but she doesn't. She gets up and comes to sit by his side, not quite touching him except for their shoulders brushing. "I am tired of fighting, Tom," she says instead, staring resolutely ahead. "I've been hurtful and insensitive and made everything worse – I know that. And I am sorry, I truly am. I used to think you were the only person I could still talk to, and I seem to have ruined that as well. I can't exactly hold it against you, if you want me as far away from you as I can be… but I would be very sorry to see you go. More than you know."

Must she make it so difficult to be furious with her? He regrets the moment he ever wished for her to hurt as badly as he did; this close he can see her hands tremble as she fidgets – can feel her holding herself together through sheer force of will. He would never want her to be miserable, _ever_ , not on his account. He whispers this into the space between them, an admission too fragile, too private for any ears but her own.

"Tom… you do not make me miserable. It feels like everything else might sometimes but not you, never you." She bows her head so he can't see her face but he can hear the tears in her voice well enough. "That is what scares me, really."

And just like this, every last trace of anger has deserted him. He has to kiss her and he does so, as carefully as he can: the top of her head first, high on her cheekbone where the pale skin blooms pink when she is flustered, and then once more, barely pressing his lips against the corner of her trembling mouth. It's done out of tenderness rather than passion, but no one would mistake it for brotherly affection. He feels her sigh against him, and she burrows into his side and rests her head against his shoulder.

The armor is off, for once, and God only knows how long _that_ will last, but Tom Branson never could help himself. He knows the danger in pushing back and arguing when their cease fire is still so fragile, and he'll do it anyway.

'Mary, if that is how you feel - then how can this between us be so terrible?'

She sighs but does not tense in his arms. Tom chooses to take it as a good sign. "It may feel right when we are like this," she starts. And it does, in a way that still surprises him. "But a – a _relationship_ between us is inconvenient in many other ways, you can't be blind to it. We can't change our family's life from one day to the next and pretend there will be no consequences."

"What would those changes be, exactly? Because we already live together, we share a home, we've raised our children together-"

"Yes, we live together, and it is unremarkable as long as people think us brother and sister – and that is what we are in the eyes of those who know us! If people were to find out … everybody is going to look back at all those years when we lived under the same roof with other eyes. Do you really want to pretend otherwise?"

"I don't care what other people think."

'So you've been saying since the first time you got to this house, and I remain unconvinced. I am not like you, Tom. It may be easy for you to ignore the rumors but reputation matters to someone in my position. My son's social standing matters - you ask me to throw it all away but it is not just my pride in the balance here. I have to think of George."

"Before you know it he will be a young man making his own choices, and then you'll be despairing about what people might think regardless."

"That is his prerogative. He is not a man now, he is a boy! And Sybbie? You will tell me, honestly, that you think this would not affect her?"

"Sybbie adores you! Every unmarried woman I have talked to she has compared to you and found wanting!"

"That is because she thought I was no threat to her place in your heart and they were. You don't know women nearly as well as you think you do."

"I know my own daughter. I know she can be stubborn at first but-"

"And my parents? Will they come round too?"

He doesn't know what to tell her. I hope they will? It sounds hollow, even to his own ears. He has always wanted their approval, however much it embarrasses him. It was easier, back when he was madly in love with Sybil, to say he didn't care; perhaps he hadn't quite grasped what he was asking his young bride to leave behind. He couldn't have known; he hadn't loved them then.

He is silent for a beat too long, it seems, for Mary smiles at him sadly.

"Here I was thinking it was nice to be sitting by your side again, as co-conspirators, like children huddled in the dark with a secret. And I've made you sad again." She pulls back to search his face, and must see some of his worries reflected there because she rises a hand to trace his features softly. "Don't frown so. You are too young for wrinkles."

It's hard not to smile when she looks at him like this. "I am really not. I am going grey too."

"You? Already?" she makes a face and tries to peer at his hairline. It gets a laugh out of him.

"Just a little, at the temples. What are you doing? You are not going to see it in this light."

"Well, I am sure you will look very dashing and distinguished."

"You wouldn't be saying that if you were going grey yourself."

"Hm. I suppose it's bound to happen at some point. God forbid."

"Mary, about us-"

She sighs. "Can't we just enjoy this? Please? There will be time to worry later. Let's just stay like this for a while."

"Fair enough," he sighs, and she relaxes against him. He can't get rid of the feeling that she has won, but with Mary warm and pliable in his arms defeat has never seemed so sweet. He isn't certain how long they spend like this, silently staring into the fire, but it's the most peace he has known in far too long.


	5. Chapter 5

"A Downstairs Interlude"

 **The author was powerless to resist.**

Anna can hear the muted whispers and giggling as she walks down the stairs. She knows what she will find in the servants hall, and sure enough, there they are: most of the staff of the house (greatly reduced since Anna's early days in Downton, but still numerous enough to spread a rumor with alarming speed) in various states of shock and amusement, huddled around their only footman, Charlie, who has only been in the house for three months and seems wholly unprepared for this degree of inquiry.

"What do you mean they were sleeping together?"

"I didn't mean it like _that_!"

"Well however did you mean it?!"

"They had fallen asleep on the sofa, that's all. They were dressed properly and everything!"

"What exactly is proper attire for falling asleep on the sofa with your brother-in-law?"

"They were dressed for dinner's what I meant."

"Dressed for dinner at six in the morning!"

"They must have spent the evening talking and dozed off."

"But when you say together on the sofa…"

"It was sweet, really. Mr. Branson had his arm around Lady Mary. I… well, I think Lady Mary might have drooled on his jacket a little."

"She did not!"

"That will be a pain to clean."

"Who cares about cleaning! You don't think they are sweet on each other, do you?"

"You don't care because you don't have to do it."

"That Lady Mary… with her sister's husband of all people!"

"Oh, give it a rest, it's been a decade! That poor man should remarry, I've always thought so. All by himself with a daughter to raise!"

"Surely he can do better… no offense to the Lady, of course but she's…"

"More like Lady Mary could do better than him!"

"Oh, you know what I meant…"

"Could she really though? Isn't she like – _forty_?"

"They'd make a handsome couple, I always thought so."

"Did they wake up when you came in?!"

"Well," the poor boy looks besides himself with embarrassment. "Not really? I didn't know what to do, I tried to make some noise but it didn't seem to work. Mr. Branson was snoring and everything. And then I panicked and went outside and Mr. Barrow was there and said he would handle it and sent me downstairs. I should not have said anything! Please don't tell Mr. Barrow I said anything…"

A floor board creaks under her boot, and everyone turns around at once. "Oh, it is you, Mrs. Bates, thank the Lord!" Charlie exclaims, "I thought it would be Mr. Barrow. You gave me quite the fright."

She catches her husband's conspiratorial wink behind him. "I never thought I would see the day people feared our esteemed Mr. Barrow," comments Mr. Bates under his breath.

"Hush, play nice," she answers with a smile as the rest of the servants disband and poor traumatized Charlie is sent upstairs to serve breakfast.

"I assume you knew about this before you came down. Lady Mary rang for you."

"I didn't take you for a gossip. And before you ask, I can neither confirm nor deny the rumors regarding the state of Mr. Branson's dinner jacket."

"Would you be in a position to know? Was she perhaps wearing it when you saw her?"

"No comment."

"You do not look in the least bit surprised at this state of affairs."

"Hm?"

He laughs under his breath. "Fine, don't tell me. No matter. I suppose we will all find out soon enough."

 **And we'll be back to our regularly scheduled UST and inability to Talk About Feelings for Chapter 6.**


	6. Chapter 6

**In which Mary wonders how people even manage illicit affairs in this day and age.**

It's a mild, sunny, entirely conventional late spring day, like every other spring day she has glimpsed from her window. The leaves seem as green as they were yesterday. The birds chirp to the same old tune. People toil in the fields and walk the village streets and by all accounts, everything is precisely the same as it was before.

But no matter how reassuringly predictable the birds and the leaves and the movement of life getting on as usual outside her window, nothing will convince Mary Crawley that the world still turns as it once used to. No. A fundamental shift has occurred, she is sure: even if no one else can see it, the axis of the Earth has shifted at a strange angle – the process began long ago perhaps, but _today_ – today she can sense it. _Everything is different._ She is acutely aware of this change that has been brought upon her, and it's as alarming as it is exhilarating.

For a moment she thinks of going for a ride – she wants to throw herself into it, wind on her face and heart galloping at a speed to match her horse. She can imagine her tenants turning to watch her speed by; some would raise a hand to their hats, a show of respect. She imagines other frowning at the grown woman riding recklessly like an impetuous girl with something to prove. Most would envy her, of course: there is still plenty to admire – she is an able rider and she cuts a fine figure. When she dismounts she knows her cheeks will be red and her eyes bright; never mind the occasional aches and pains after strenuous exercise, in her mind Mary is not a widow and a mother irrevocably approaching middle-age: no, in her own mind Mary is younger and brighter and _better_. Sitting down for luncheon, placid and reserved? Unthinkable. She is restless and alive, and if she stays in her room one more hour, pacing after changing her blouse _three times_ , she'll go mad.

She slides past Barrow, pretending his knowing air is no more insolent than usual, ignores the library so as not to run into her father, and she's out, walking down the gravel path in less-than-sensible shoes, enjoying the exercise until she reaches the edges of the village, where Tom's own business venture – the garage he'd been meaning to open for years and which he runs part-time - has been making small but reliable profits for the past two years. She steals a glimpse of herself in the window of the first car she passes by – ugly hulking noisy things as far as Mary is concerned, but Tom has them shinning like polished silver, she'll give him that. She adjusts her hat just so, twists her head to the side until she is satisfied. Lipstick, perhaps? No: it would draw attention too much to the fact that she has made an effort today. Which she wouldn't do, because this is a day like any other, as far as everybody else is concerned.

Tom's one employee, a scrawny, freckled thing in dirty overalls that doesn't look a day over eighteen, goes red to the tips of his ears when he sees her walk in. She seemed to remember Tom saying it was just him at the garage on Tuesdays – or did she get the days mixed up? Oh well.

"Is Mr. Branson around, Williams?"

"Wilkins, Mrs. Craw- I mean, Lady Cr – I mean, Lady Mary!" She wonders where Tom got this awkward overgrown toddler from and how soon he can return him. "He is in his office at the back, m'lady, apologies. Should I call him? I'll call 'im, if you would just wait a second-"

She raises a hand and the boy's mouth snaps shut. "That is quite alright, Wilkins. I know where the office is." She slides past the boy carefully (it wouldn't do to get a dark smudge on this skirt and ruin it) and walks down the corridor, wondering if the clicking of her heels will announce her arrival.

The door opens before her elegantly gloved hand can knock on it, and there he is, appealingly rumpled in his three piece grey suit and ready to go out: his eyebrows climb up his forehead comically at finding her there, right in front of him, and whatever he was going to say dies in his throat.

"May I come in?" she asks mildly, willing her heart to stop pounding.

"Of course," he steps aside and she slides into his office, taking off her gloves and perching herself in the nearest chair not covered by piles of papers. The room is a good deal smaller and more crowded than the space they share when managing the property, but It's kept neat enough, though the strong smell of motor oil and polish is apparently impossible to eradicate. She arranges herself on the chair carefully, with the practiced confidence of a queen holding court, before she raises her eyes in his direction.

He closes the door and walks towards her with a casual air that is not fooling her. His eyes – straying briefly below her neck before darting back to her face- gives him away.

"I was not expecting to see you here. I don't think you've come here in months."

"Hm. I thought I'd walk into the village and you were in the way. Where else did you think I might be?"

He leans on the wall across from her. "Well, at breakfast with us, I had hoped. Did you have to leave me alone to suffer the scrutiny?"

She smiles – truth be told, she would have liked to see his face right then. "I thought I would stay in bed a while longer. I was tired. I don't imagine there was a scrutiny of any sort, as no one saw anything."

"Barrow did. He kept smirking at me when the rest were not looking. I am surprised you are being so blasé about it."

"We were careless, that's all. It was all perfectly innocent, really."

"You blushed so hard when you realized where you were your face might have been on fire."

"I was perfectly _fine_ , because nothing happened, and because I know Barrow won't talk. You know how much he enjoys knowing something no one else knows and lording it over everybody else. We might as well give him the satisfaction."

Tom rolls his eyes at that, lips twisting in a smirk. There's heat in his gaze when his eyes find hers, and he is not making much effort to hide it. Suddenly, her plan of letting him watch from a safe distance does not seem that satisfying. It'd take _nothing_ , nothing at all for her to get up and go to him – they are barely two, three steps apart. She could easily fist her hands on the lapels of his jacket and reel him in, have him groan into her mouth, and then-

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Branson, but Mr. Ferris is outside and he says-"

Right. Well, Tuesdays is clearly not the slow business day she was envisioning. Tom looks a little flustered as he leaves the office with a muttered apology, though, which is perfectly satisfying in its own way.

It turns out people truly _are_ interested in cars, far more than Mary ever expected. And while there are no shortage of dark, discrete corners to drag a certain someone for some private time if she were so inclined… well, coming back to Downton with black smudges on her fine clothes would be the opposite of discrete and discretion is key, she reminds herself. She is truly appallingly out of practice, but really: who knew finding a moment to kiss a man was this much work? How do people even manage illicit affairs in this day and age?

"I'd better be off," she whispers when he finally gets a moment of peace, pressing a not-entirely-casual peck to his cheek. "Clearly you are very busy." There's nothing new, truly, about greeting him like this, she's done it before. It's the lingering there, with her hand delicately brushing his arm and her neck arched so, acutely aware of every inch between them. _That_ 's new.

He has to clear his throat before speaking. "Do you have any other errands in the village?"

She smiles. Adjusts her hat. "No. But I was thinking of going back to the office."

"You hardly ever go to into the office on Tuesdays. Not at this hour."

"Hm. Don't I? I thought I might. I have some unfinished business to attend to."

"Do you?"

"I thought I could use your help. But clearly you have plenty to do here. Mustn't leave poor Williams alone, I expect he wouldn't be able to find his own head if it wasn't attached to his freckled shoulders."

"Wilkins."

"That's what I said."

He has to choke back a laugh at that. "You delight in torturing me."

"Well, I certainly have no idea what you are implying," she smiles back sweetly. "I'll see you back at Downton for tea?"

"Well, yes but-"

"We can have tea with Mama and Sybbie. Talk about our day, bicker about fine schools for a precocious twelve year old… should be fun."

"And then your father will join us for dinner."

"Yes."

"And I don't suppose you'll want to have a drink with me afterwards."

"It depends on how tired we are, I suppose. Though after last night… well, I am not sure it would be wise."

He hasn't looked away from her lips for the past thirty seconds, she's sure. Not that she's been counting.

"So if I wanted to talk to you. Privately. To discuss this very important -"

"-this very important investment deal we should discuss. At length. Far from prying eyes."

"Well then if I wanted us to discuss that-"

"You should join me in the office," she offers innocently. "But it seems like you can't, so – pity, really."

"Wilkins, I am afraid I am off for the day," Tom calls out, eyes fixed on Mary. "Close shop at six, will you?" It's hard to stop herself from grinning all the way as they step out together, into the busy village street outside.

They barely get the door closed before he has her pressed against it. The door handle is digging awkwardly against her back and she honestly could not care less, because he is _here_ , and his broad hands are warm against her face and his eyes burn as he looks at her.

"What's got into you today? Are you the same woman who lectured me about recklessness, truly?"

"Are you under the impression I asked you here to talk?"

He laughs. "We will have to talk at _some_ point."

She surges against him and his mouth opens under hers. God, it's just as good as she remembers it. How she managed three weeks without this, knowing what it was like, knowing how it felt- her eyes slide shut as they kiss, emboldened, and it's nothing, _nothing_ like the hesitant tenderness of last night – why would they even want to talk, when they could be doing this instead? They can't kiss at Downton, where she can barely stomach touching him: in Downton the walls have eyes, in Downton Barrow is lurking behind a pillar with a pair of binoculars for all she knows (Mary is sure of his loyalty, truly, but she'd rather not risk it), in Downton she can't even think about Tom in this manner without feeling guilty and wretched.

It's better here, they should do this here. As far as Mary is concerned, talking is wildly overrated. Talking can wait.

 **The author tried to get her heroine to behave like a responsible adult. But you see, the heroine wanted to make out with her brother-in-law and refused to listen to reason.**


	7. Chapter 7

**"** **An Ill-Advised Interlude"**

 **This little flashback was originally part of Chapter 6, I cut it out, and then I felt bad about it. I figured, after six chapters of Mary deliberately NOT thinking of that night, withholding the flashback for any longer was a little ridiculous. This is very short, because yours truly is a horrible tease (and this has a T rating after all). Warning for callous mistreatment of menswear and uh - posh people behaving badly? Is that a thing? It should be a thing.**

They are alone. It occurs to Mary that this should be more shocking: she should be more alarmed at what she has agreed to (in truth, what she has proposed), but she's been operating on impulse for the past hour, since she first got too close, made a show of drinking a little too much champagne and held his gaze for a moment too long.

But it's not the alcohol that's got to her, not really: it's the freedom. The rush is heady, intoxicating enough to silence any doubts she might have had. Tonight she will take what she wants without apology; nothing can stop her now, nothing will.

She bites into his lower lip, sudden and sharp, and soothes the sting with her tongue as she quickly divests him of his jacket. The undone tie comes next, falling to the floor like a snake coiled at her feet; then his vest, which she all but claws off him in the haste to get closer. He says he wants to take his time with her – well, _let him try_. She's not stopping, not for one moment, not for anything in the world.

His fingers find her wrists and wrap around them, gently but firmly leading her hands away. "Calm down. You'll ruin my best shirt." He is trying to make a joke but his voice is deeper than usual, the accent thicker on his tongue and oh, damn that shirt, she'll buy him another one. Never mind the economy, they are rich, aren't they? She is rich enough to buy him a thousand shirts! His lips drag across her neck, hot and wet with the promise of teeth dragging across her skin, and the noise in her head, this mad frantic rush that won't stop, quiets down somewhat. Her wrists are pinned at the small of her back, enclosed around his larger hands, his arms around her. The only noise she can hear is her own panting, labored breathing.

"Tom…" her voice catches on the word. She's trembling.

He kisses her like that for what seems like an age, soft and maddeningly slow, with the practiced ease of a long-time lover even though they've never touched in this way before tonight. He kisses her until she melts against him, until the whole world around them melts away and she can't think about anything else. He calls her darling, whispers endearments into her parted lips, and she has no idea what she is saying in return because she can barely recognize her own voice. His hold on her wrists is loose, really, more caress than restraint: he'd never hurt her, she knows this. No matter: she knows she will feel it for weeks, as vividly as an ugly bruise blooming there – the invisible, burning imprint of his hands on her.

 **Author's note: I am grateful there's people out there who seem to agree with me that these two should have been a thing; more grateful still because there's still people willing to read fic for a rare pairing for a show that's been over for a year. I can be reached on tumblr at lizziesiddalinthetub – feel free to leave a message over there as well (I don't bite!). A longer chapter is coming sometime this week, with Edith & co. making an appearance.**


	8. Chapter 8

"A Change of Scene"

 **Author's note: How does a working class, socialist, chauffeur Irishman with dreams of revolution, widowed, heart-broken, banished from his homeland, end up throwing in his lot with the English aristocracy?** **with apologies to Lin-Manuel Miranda**

Two more weeks go by, testing Tom's self-control to its limits. When Edith and Bertie's invitation arrives one morning, he is grateful for it; God knows he could do with a change of scene, even though he does not imagine he will be awarded any private time in Brancaster Castle either, so he and Mary can work out… well, whatever is between them.

They've kissed a total of five times since Mary's unexpected appearance at the shop. Twice, it was over before it had truly begun, lips pressed furtively against the other's in a moment stolen. Once, it went further… or would have gone further had they not heard Tiia barking a few seconds before a happily oblivious Lord Grantham walked into the room. Few things will cool down a man's ardour as effectively as the chance of being caught with his hand up his sister-in-law's skirt –by her father, no less. He comes back to that memory again and again, with masochistic deliberation, every time he catches himself looking too closely at her in company. It seems to do the trick.

Of course, they do their best to keep a respectful distance while at the house. It's an unspoken rule, mutually agreed upon, silently articulated in warning glances. They still talk, still tease, still bicker good-naturedly. They still draw their plans, foregoing luncheon to get lost in legal jargon they can barely make sense of without their lawyer, talking crops and pigs and rates of interest and a great deal many things he could have never imagined he'd be animatedly discussing with his Lady Mary Crawley back in the day. He has grown comfortable with this routine: he loves bouncing arguments off with her, loves how assertively she'll answer back, how she's come to know the business inside and out. But still… it's never quite just the two of them in this house. Even assuming stars align and staff keeps well away from them, Cora doesn't push for them to join her for tea, Robert requires no further convincing before he capitulates to their latest scheme and Sybbie doesn't poke her curious head through the doorway… even so, they are never truly alone in Downton. He catches her sometimes, glancing into the distance, and when his eyes follow hers he finds the armchair Matthew used to favor, and he can guess what she is thinking all too well.

As for himself, he's afraid to admit he has stopped seeing Sybil in every corner long ago. There's no ghostly bride following him from room to room; his life does not resemble those novels his daughter has taken to read. She does not spring up on him, catching him guilty and unaware. He keeps his Sybil close, but in other ways. She is a warm, reassuring voice in his head sometimes, reminding him to be kinder. She is the photograph he keeps in his room: young nurse Crawley in her perfectly pressed uniform, brave and radiantly beautiful in the plainest clothes she ever wore. Even after all this time, she is often in his dreams: from time to time he is transported back to that shabby flat they shared in Dublin, where he can hear her delighted laughter and take her delicate hands, unaccustomed to labor, and feel the skin grow a little coarser from every day of honest work. When he wakes up after those dreams it takes him a minute to remember she's gone – time passes by relentlessly in this life (even when one is safely tucked away behind Downton's thick and ancient walls) but never in his head, never in that place he goes to for comfort after a long day when his eyes close. There, she is always young, unchanging, and he is the boy he used to be when she was still alive, a world away from the man he is now.

Sometimes, he will peer into his wife's photograph and try to imagine how she would look now, if Death had not forever frozen her in youth. She resembled Cora, somewhat – would she have grown into her mother? Would she have developed the fine lines around her eyes Mary now has?

During the first few years, he'd keep the picture by his bed and take it with him always, no matter where he travelled, tucked discretely at the bottom of his suitcase, safe in the folds on his clothes. It was an unabashedly sentimental gesture; foolish even, because it was hardly the only picture of hers he had, and it was by far the most awkward to transport, considering he wouldn't even take it from its ornate frame.

Now, brave nurse Crawley watches silently from her perch on the mantelpiece, all seeing but passing no judgment, as he packs for the trip: black tie for dinner, sensible suits that are nonetheless well made enough so as not to stick out too much among whoever else the Pelhams might have invited, and enough practical clothing to walk the grounds and go shooting – his one concession to what passes for leisure among the English upper-classes.

He is very plainly not the man Sybil Crawley married – there's no getting around that. He closes the suitcase, spares one last glance at himself in the mirror to fix his tie, and takes his luggage downstairs himself, fingers brushing the picture frame briefly, a silent goodbye before leaving the room.

As always, no one is quite as excited to visit Brancaster as Sybbie is. Ever since George departed for boarding school, his daughter has grown lonely. She is – well, _friendly_ enough with some of the village children, Tom supposes. She is friendly with everyone, since she inherited her mother's easy manner in many ways, and so most people find her sweet and charming (if rather too stubborn and argumentative – _that_ is all his doing). But she wears pretty dresses, lives in the big fine house that her cousin will one day inherit and her father and aunt could have their parents out of a job and out of the property in the blink of an eye if they wished (that he and Mary would never think of doing it is besides the point: they could). Even innocent children see this. Pretending class barriers are invisible is, perhaps, an indulgence only the rich can afford.

While George ranks first in her affections - for all their endless bickering - Sybbie adores Marigold, which they all find very touching, considering they barely shared the nursery for a year when they were very young. Marigold follows her eldest cousin silent and wide-eyed, with the admiration of a little sister, even if she's the eldest of Edith's offspring; Peter Douglas Pelham, who ought to succeed his father as Marquess one day, was born a year after Edith and Bertie's marriage, and later came Margaret Sybil and little Robert Herbert, who was learning his first words last time Tom saw him. It's a wonderful surprise still, seeing Edith as an unlikely matriarch, surrounded by an adoring husband, four healthy and happy children and a social life so busy they can barely keep up. The Crawleys suspect their now glamorous and distinguished middle daughter is secretly determined not to introduce them to the fashionable collective of artists and intellectuals they imagine flock to her when they are not looking. Privately, Tom suspects his long-suffering sister-in-law is more an affectionately tolerated background player in those circles than the charismatic patron Robert and Cora envision; as clever and capable as she is, Edith will always strike him as a little self-conscious, a little too hungry for validation to lead.

Bertie himself – and it's plain old Bertie to him and the Crawleys, even if he's been the Marquess of Hexham for a good eight years – is waiting for them at the station with two male members of his staff. He greets them with the earnest, self-effacing manner no one in their right mind would expect from an English nobleman, marvelling at how much Sybbie has grown and shaking hands with him and Robert. Even Mary has to defrost (somewhat) for the man that forgave rather too easily her petty attempt at sabotaging his happiness. She enquires after her nephews and nieces with a smile that comes across as genuine.

Bertie rides in the first car with Robert and Cora, leaving him and Mary on the second one, with an excited Sybbie sitting between them.

"Do you think Aunt Edith will have any visitors from London this weekend?" asks his daughter, preening as she straightens the hem of her new dress. No doubt she is daydreaming of making the acquaintance of a famous artist. Mary extends a hand and fixes Sybbie's collar.

"I expect there will be visitors she deems acceptable company for us," she locks eyes with him over Sybbie's head, conspiratorially. "You know how it is, though – we can't all rub shoulders with Virginia Woolf."

Tom laughs. "I think she met her twice back in the 1920s and that was that, Mary. They are hardly the best of friends."

"Mrs. Woolf is a famous novelist, is she not?" asks Sybbie, star-struck.

"I understand she's written some novels, if you can call them that," Mary replies archly. Everything tainted by association with Edith she is quick to reject on principle. "Unreadable drivel, or so I am told. I wouldn't know, of course. I don't know how your Aunt finds the time for all that reading she claims to do."

"You might like Mrs. Woolf's essays, though," he tells Mary, unable to help himself. "Edith sent me her latest on the emancipation of the female writer. I found it quite interesting."

"Can I read it?" Sybbie exclaims.

"God help us all," Mary drawls, every bit the late Dowager Countess' granddaughter. "You are opinionated enough as it is."

Edith Pelham née Crawley, Marchioness of Hexham, is waiting for them by the castle's grand entrance, which doesn't really get any less intimidating with each visit. Her children are behind her, lined up under their nanny's watchful eye. The woman holds a fussy baby Robert in her arms. Tom leaves the car first, offering his daughter a hand – which she rejects, all but jumping from the car in her eagerness – and then Mary, who takes it gracefully. He has to catch himself before he places a hand on the small of her back as they walk towards Edith and her children.

Edith greets her parents warmly, her sister politely but with more reserve, but she smiles widely at him and Sybbie. His daughter babbles animatedly about her new found literary vocation while Edith and Mary look down with – for once – identical expressions of indulgent fondness. Tom spies Marigold smiling timidly at them while her grandparents coo over Baby Robert and winks in her direction.

"Go say hello to your cousins, Sybbie. I'd like to say hello to your Aunt Edith too."

Sybbie does not require any further prompting; she skips towards Marigold, all ladylike dignity Mary might have tried to instil in her forgotten, and Edith turns towards him.

"Your Ladyship," he says mildly. Mary rolls her eyes.

"Oh, would you stop with that already," Edith laughs, moving forward to kiss him on the cheek. "It is wonderful to see you, Tom. I can't believe how much older dear Sybbie looks already."

"Well, you haven't come to see the girl since Christmas," Mary points out. Tom can already imagine how the rest of this visit is likely to go. They move on to greet Edith's children, and comment on how much _they_ have grown, and lament that George still needs to sit for his exams and cannot join them in Brancaster. Tom hopes everyone misses the way he all but jumps out of his skin when Mary rather proprietarily takes hold of his arm as they walk inside.

 **Author's note: If only our Edith had been given a season long arc that basically consisted of hanging out with the Bloomsbury set in the early 20s! But that's one of the many missed opportunities of this show (together with Tom's career in journalism and Thomas Barrow's inability to find another gay man in all of England). I like to think an older Tom Branson would still retain his appetite for reading anything he could get his hands on – politics, history, economics - and that Sybbie will inherit this enthusiasm, along with opportunities for formal education that he lacked.**


	9. Chapter 9

"The Dinner Party"

 **Author's note: I had to split this chapter into two – more on this evening later this week.**

They spend most of the first day as a family, as none of the other guests are expected until the following day. Tom gets the chance to catch up with Edith, who is always eager to get him up to speed with the going ons in London; he plays with his nephews and nieces while their nanny looks on, somewhat puzzled at his enthusiasm to have children climb over him, and he spends the evening by the fire with Bertie and Robert, while Mary pretends not to follow the talk of taxes and loses as she sits with the rest of the ladies. He suspects she is wondering what he is wondering: how do Edith and Bertie manage to keep a castle of this ridiculous size still running? The Pelhams don't lack for money, but he knows all too well how expensive it is to care for such a property. So does Bertie, come to that, considering he started running it well before it was actually his. Brancaster is larger than Downton, and older too – he knows there's an entire wing that's no longer in use, but the house still boasts a more numerous staff than Downton, and there's no shortage of luxury in the rooms they frequent. Some of these have even changed since his first visit at the castle, back when Rose's in-laws were renting it: there's some decisively more contemporary furniture that he suspects is Edith's doing.

Their second day is a whirlwind of activity, and he regrets not spending more time with Mary when he still had the chance: Edith's party of Londoners arrives in the morning – a fashionable crowd, though, he is sorry to disappoint his daughter, there isn't a modernist author in sight – and most of the day is devoted to shooting on the grounds. Dinner is a grander affair that evening, and Tom finds himself sitting between Cora and one of Bertie's old school pals, an agreeable enough fellow by the name of Johnson with an interest in cars to match his own. He can see why Bertie wanted them to meet: Johnson is bright as a whip and eager to sing the praises of the English automobile industry, which he calls a sound investment, and far more profitable than farming. It is hard to argue with Johnson's assessment, truly; Tom wishes Mary was sitting closer to them at the table and could listen to the man's ideas, which are not too different from some he's been pondering himself.

To be fair, his wish to have Mary close stems from another reason entirely: she's stuck across the table, sat next to a so called Lawrence, son of some earl or other if he remembers correctly, who's been eyeing her like a hawk all evening. He is too far from them to hear what they are saying among the buzz of the dinner party, but he can read body language well enough to know Mary's unimpressed, and this unpleasant fellow is all but slobbering over her.

Suddenly, Johnson's wild tales of industrial success seem less engaging than before. He is probably staring, but he can't help himself: he watches as the man smirks in Mary's direction with the infuriating arrogance Tom's come to expect in his years in these circles. He tries to catch Edith's eye from across the table; his sister-in-law smiles briefly at him, ignoring the question in his eyes before continuing her own conversation with the rest of the dinner party. Tom doesn't miss how she keeps stealing interested glances at Mary and her interlocutor. Oh, he knows this routine, can recognize it well enough after being a victim to his sister-in-law's benign machinations; now that he thinks about it, this is the first time in years he hasn't been sat next to a pretty journalist, an up-and-coming painter or once, rather memorably, a female car racer who'd flirted with him outrageously throughout the dinner. Edith seems to have moved on from trying to find a woman for him, which is not as big a relief as he might have thought, considering what the alternative is.

Mary seems more animated now, dark eyes flashing as she answers back. Her posture is as impeccable as usual, her smile polite, but he sees the tension in her shoulders well enough. This is the moment where a man who cannot keep up with Mary Crawley would do well to retreat. The man in question, however, babbles on.

He turns towards his mother-in-law, who is also doing a poor job of pretending that she is not focused on Mary's conversation.

"Do you know that man?" he asks, pitching his voice low.

"Lord Darrington? Last time I saw him he was a boy. We've met his parents – his father inherited the title right after the war."

"So Lord is it?"

"Viscount, actually. That's how Bertie introduced him this afternoon, remember?"

"But his father is the Viscount."

"His father's an Earl."

"So it's a subsidiary title?"

"Oh, not quite, he is styled that way to avoid confusion."

Well, he can't say it's working, as Tom is quite confused himself. Viscount or not, the man is clearly insufferable. Tom understands his brother-in-law's accommodating nature tends to make him rather too forgiving, but he would have thought he'd have better taste in friends. Surely they cannot think Mary would be interested in this conceited fop?

His voice carries through the din of the dinner party. "But truly you do not mean to say you handle most of those duties? Why, for a lady such as yourself-" Mary has gone very still and very cold, which he would know does not bode well if he knew Mary at all.

Darrington, if that is his name – Tom does not use titles in his head; he never has and will not start now - seems to find it all a bit of harmless fun. Tom is certain everyone at the dinner can see the vein in his neck pulsing angrily when the man finally appears to notice him. "Forgive me if I find it hard to imagine you up to your elbows in mud with your-" he rises a dismissive eyebrow in his direction, and there's nothing Tom would like to do more than punch his smug chinless face.

"Mr. Branson," Mary offers, dark eyes hard and piercing. "My partner in the running of the estate for the past decade, yes."

"Well, yes, being the agent of a large estate is a fine occupation for an enterprising man who has no other pr-," he catches himself, smiles what he probably imagines is a winning smile, "no offence meant, Bertie, dear chap."

"None taken." Tom can't see the expression on his brother-in-law's face: he'll be damned if he is looking away from this cockroach.

"It _is_ a fine occupation, and an honourable one, which Mr. Branson performs admirably," Mary's voice is clipped and restrained, her usual show of aloof disinterest, but there´s a vicious splotch of colour high in her cheeks. "But he does not manage the estate by himself. I have done my share of the work for years, to considerable success. Perhaps you are rather old-fashioned, and prefer not to know where you derive your fortune from. I am not of that opinion."

"Come now, Laurence, we are not in the 19th century," Bertie cuts in, good-naturedly, but his attempts to defuse the situation might have come a little too late.

"Well, of course your willingness to preserve your son's inheritance does you credit… but – well, pardon me, but all this talk of the value of honest work …"

"Shall we have dessert?" Edith offers rather desperately. Everyone ignores her.

"- it strikes me as – if you don't mind me saying so – at best a charming affectation."

By now Tom's hands are balled into fists under the table. He plants his feet on the floor, bends forward to push his chair back and stand up when another female voice stops him.

"Why, I think it's brilliant," cuts in the woman on Darrington's left just as Cora's hand discretely flies to the sleeve of Tom's dinner jacket to keep him in place. "There's women everywhere in London, and not just in the arts. Of course we all know about the talented, enterprising young ladies making great strides in journalism and publishing, thanks to the contributions of our dear Lady Edith," there's a whisper of approval and polite smiles around the table. "But I like to think that soon there will be no area where women may not make their contributions. It seems only just that this revolution should extend to these matters as well."

"You would say so, Flora," Darrington looks down on the woman, who Tom can now see is his sister. "But I can hardly imagine you doing the same." Tom steals a glance at Mary: whether it is her dislike of the man or her temper about to flare despite decades of impeccable breeding instilled in her, she seems uncharacteristically tense and upset.

(Perhaps it is the fact that her person and the word _revolution_ were spoken of in the same sentence, which would normally be enough to turn her stomach.)

They finally lock eyes, and he is surprised at how shaken she seems. _She was defending me_ , he thinks, rather unhelpfully, because now he wants to rush to her and hold her in his arms and he can't. He ought to punch that man for even daring to look at her – more than anything, he longs to let everyone in this world know she wouldn't look at that fool twice because it's _him_ she wants, and damn the consequences. Mary's eyes are bright and fierce and fixed on him and he loves her then, so desperately he is sure it shows on his face for everyone to see. He coughs and tears his eyes away before he does something rash, and tries to wipe the smile that threatens to take over his face – God, _what is wrong with him_ – before Cora sees it.

 **Author's note: forms of address for the English nobility make no sense to this Latin American and no amount of googling will make me less confused. I feel your pain, Tom.**


	10. Chapter 10

"The Dinner Party, continued"

 **Author's note: I like playing with unreliable narrators and needless to say, Mary's PoV demands bitter disdain. I hope my readers will remember that the opinions included herein in no way reflect the author's real views regarding Edith Pelham née Crawley.**

Mary knows how these evenings go: she's been raised for them, primed and trained for them, and she could still charm every man in the room if she were so inclined. But it has all grown so tiresome – with every year that passes her patience wears thinner. She'd much rather be at her own house, with people she actually likes.

Instead, she is standing on a side of the room, indulging in more champagne than is probably wise, while Darrington goes on and on, as condescending and smug as he was during dinner. She looks around the room, hoping someone will come to her aid, but Bertie seems to have led Tom and her father away, and none of the guests close to her seem inclined to rescue her.

Laurence Darrington seems to be the kind of man who only expects humming and nodding from his conversational partners. Just as well, as she can zone out and wonder privately whether he dyes his hair – she is certain he does – or whether he spent longer than her in front of the mirror setting the waves just so. She'd rather wonder about his _coiffure_ than follow what he is saying too closely; he seems perversely delighted at the thought of her covered in mud, talking to farmers. She wonders if someone told him about that business with the pigs back in the day.

It's when he brings up Tom that she cannot ignore him any longer. He makes another arch comment about how eccentric it is of her to have such interests or keep such company, looks down his sharp nose while commenting on her baffling interest in the plight of the common worker -what is that supposed to mean, she is a land owner, not a _communist_ \- and she has finally had enough.

"… surely, a woman of your means and position would prefer to-"

"Surely it is more sensible, _for a woman of my means and position_ , to prefer the company of a hard-working man who understands how to manage a large estate rather than someone whose only knowledge of money comes from spending other people's fortune to his heart's content."

Few things have ever given Mary the satisfaction of this moment, with the man all but choking on Bertie's fine champagne. She watches him walk away, leaving her standing by herself like a conquering queen with what she imagines is the rush of a battle won. Edith not so discreetly rushes to join her.

"What on earth did you say to him?" she whispers to her, nervously eyeing their guests. Marchioness or not, Edith will never learn to walk a crowded room like she truly owns it.

"Nothing he did not know to be true," she answers. "You needn't worry - the matter is done."

"Well, I don't suppose you hit it off."

"How you and Bertie could think I'd _hit it off_ with that ridiculous man is beyond me."

Edith sighs. "Bertie had his reservations if you must know. But he's got money, position, a house in London, he is bound to inherit a title of his own, he is tall and dark and dashing in that way you've always liked… he is unattached, most importantly, which at this point in our lives is a minor miracle. I've always found him rather conceited, it's true, but I imagined you would not mind. He hunts and rides and-"

"He is a pretentious bore. Does he have money, truly, or only a disposition to squander it? I don't imagine he has worked a day of his life."

She doesn't much care for the surprise in Edith's face in that moment. It's not like they are still in 1912, for goodness' sake.

"You could have brought more interesting company, quite frankly. Or did you think the talk of your intellectual London friends would fly straight over our heads?"

"I thought this company would be more to your taste. Clearly I was wrong."

"Perhaps you don't quite know me as well as you think you do," she replies, but Edith is already narrowing her eyes in a way she's learnt to be suspicious of. She can see the wheels turning in her sister's head – this is bad, very bad. Mary should hold her tongue, but she can't. "You had no success as a match-maker for Tom," she continues, "and you will not have any success with me either. So next time you feel the impulse to interfere-"

"Must you always be so selfish?" Oh, that's rich, coming from her. She will not dignify that with an answer. "I am happily married, with a family and a life of my own, and I would like my siblings to know the same happiness. While you? If you are determined to grow into a pale imitation of Granny, deriving satisfaction from snapping at everyone, I suppose none of us can stop you. But must you entrap Tom as well? I want him to be as happy as I am, and you only seem to want him to join you in your misery."

 _Misery_? Misery is what he had with that editor girl Edith all but married him off to – by the time they finally broke off the engagement, Tom was the most miserable she'd seen him in years. He wouldn't stop moping until he set off for Ireland for a month with his daughter to get his mind off that disaster. But no… clearly the Marchioness of Hexham knows best. Was Mary this smug when she was happily married? She hopes not. "What makes you think I am not perfectly content living the life I want to live?" she says to her sister. "I do not need to cling to the first man that comes my way to feel content, I'll have you know. I have means, I need not marry the first single man that comes my way-" this may be painting her financial situation a little too optimistically, but Edith need not know that. "And as for Tom, well, perhaps he simply regards Downton as his home and doesn't wish to leave it. Surely he can make his own choices."

"His loyalty to you prevents him fr-"

"And what if he chooses me," Mary snaps, cold and furious. "What of it?"

For a moment neither of them move, and the realization of what she has said settles heavily in her stomach. She locks her jaw and raises her chin, and forces herself not to look away. For her part, Edith is gaping at her like a fish.

"You cannot mean it."

"I-I only meant you shouldn't meddle," Mary's voice sounds off even to her own ears. Suddenly she'd like nothing better than to take a step back and sink into the nearest sofa and somehow hope the floor will swallow her whole. She breathes out shakily and glances away to the rest of the room, where their party goes on. She's relieved beyond words when their mother walks into her field of vision, asking Edith's opinion on God knows what and dragging her swiftly into conversation with her and Mrs. Pelham. Mary excuses herself with an unconvincing smile, claims she's tired after the excitement of the day and leaves the room, walking down the dark hall on legs threatening to buckle under her. It's the champagne, clearly: nothing more.

She almost steps right into Bertie, coming from the opposite direction. She apologizes and slides past him awkwardly, loses her footing on the carpet and would have made a pathetic spectacle of herself if Tom, walking right behind their brother in law, had not caught her in time. She stumbles against him and closes her eyes, trying to get the world to stop spinning. She hears Bertie's concerned voice and insists it is nothing: it was merely too warm inside the room and she felt somewhat dizzy, certainly nothing worth alarming the rest of the party. The two of them lead her into the ante library, past the door at the end of the long corridor, to sit in an arm chair close to one of the French windows which Bertie opens himself. It is cooler there, and quieter, which is a blessed relief. Tom gets her water and insists he'll stay with her for a while and Bertie leaves them to it after Mary once again reassures him she is fine. Tom's hand rubs her back the moment the door closes behind their host, drawing sparks across her bare skin. She is acutely aware of the fact that someone might come in, but she can't help herself: she cups his dear face with her hands and presses her lips to his softly. Already, there's comfort and familiarity in the gesture and she revels in it.

"Are you alright?" he asks when they part, voice low and concerned.

 _I almost ruined everything with Edith_ , she almost admits. But she doesn't want to spoil this stolen moment, not when finding private time is proving so difficult. "I miss you," is what she whispers instead. It is a silly thing to say, perhaps – they see each other every day – but he seems to understand. They meet in the middle and it's different this time, slower and more heated; she remembers his eyes from across the table as he looked at her and desire pierces her sudden and sharp. His hand is cupping her jaw, holding her there as he kisses her, and she closes her eyes and lets the rising tide of arousal wash over her.

"Not here," she breathes out when they part. She feels too exposed like this: if anyone were to open the door, they would be the first thing they would see. Tom takes her hand and walks her across the archway leading to a small study, pinning her against the bookcase until they are half hidden behind one of the columns.

"I am not sure this is any more private," she laughs, lightly scratching the back of his neck.

"Would you rather we went up together?"

"I wish we could," she breathes out. "But it'd be too risky."

"This is risky," he replies. They are so close she can feel the words against her lips. "It doesn't seem to bother you that much."

He wastes no time, she'll give him that. He is quick and careful not to leave any incriminating evidence; his mouth doesn't wander down her neck, so there will be no reddening marks on her skin to cover later. When he runs his hands up her legs and pushes the delicate fabric of her dress around her hips, she knows there will be no tears on the garment when she inspects it tomorrow. His fingers are warm and sure when he finally touches her, and it's not quite what she wanted but _oh_ – oh, it'll do. She can't quite kiss back; she is gasping for air, her own fingers scrambling for purchase on the shelves behind her. His other hand cups her face when she throws her head back, cushioning the back of her skull and dragging her forward again until they are face to face and it's too much; she can't hold his gaze, not now, not like this. She bites into his palm when nothing else will muffle the sounds torn from her throat and she is neither careful nor considerate about it: she can't help but hope she'll leave a mark behind.

They need to take time to compose themselves, afterwards - she helps him with his tie before they leave, and fixes her hair on the grand gilded mirror by the main door. She is silently grateful she did not choose to wear dark lipstick that night. They look – well, not quite presentable, but not quite that guilty if glimpsed from afar. She is a little flushed, the skin around her hairline damp with sweat, but she can blame the heat inside if pressed. It should be enough.

When she cracks the door open slowly, she is greeted with nothing but silence on the other side. The staircase on this side of the castle is seldom used, she knows. The corridor she should walk through to reach the wing where their rooms are seems deserted. If she strains her ears, she can still hear a few voices down the hall – some people have not retired for the evening it seems. She jumps slightly when she feels Tom's hand curve around her waist. She is held back for a moment, his chest pressed against her back as he drops a lingering kiss on her cheek before releasing her. Mary leaves the library alone, treading lightly across the corridor and smiling like a fool all the while.

 **Author's note: do you know how difficult it is to allude to sexy times against a bookcase and NOT rip off Atonement? As always, I am thankful there's still people out there willing to read this strange, indulgent little thing. Thank you for the feedback. There's an unexpected guest narrator for next chapter, which I hope you will enjoy.**


	11. Chapter 11

"An excerpt from the private papers of young Miss Sybil Branson"

 **Author's note: and now for something rather different, which I hope you will enjoy.**

 _May 2_ _nd_ _, 1933_

 _It is so exciting to be back at Brancaster! Not as exciting as staying with Aunt Edith and my cousins in the London house perhaps, but it's still marvelous. I was very happy to see Marigold, Peter, Maggie and the baby again- even if being around children means I am encouraged to spend time with them, instead of dining with the adults like a proper lady, like I always do back home. Still, I don't mind: Dad always says he wishes he could dine with us instead, which makes my little cousins giggle._

 _The most interesting thing about coming to Brancaster, though, is wondering who else we might run into. I know Granny is looking forward to the guests because I overheard her and Grandpapa talking about it earlier today, as we were coming into the house. I followed them silently (Mr. Barrow would be proud of me, he always said I'd make a great spy!) because I wanted to know if any celebrated artist was coming. But all I heard was something about a viscount that Aunt Edith had apparently invited._

 _"_ _And you don't expect that will work out," Donk'd said in a voice so loud Granny looked proper scandalized. I could have told her it is rather useless to expect my grandfather to be discrete when it comes to conversations in public – he is losing his hearing after all, which means any attempt at whispering into his ear is bound to end in shouting._

 _"_ _Well, it cannot hurt to try!"Granny cried out but he seemed unconvinced._

 _"_ _The faster you accept the inevitable, the better this will go. If she wanted to go husband hunting, she would have done so a long time ago. She had no shortage of handsome suitors, and we all know how that played out."_

 _I can only assume they meant my Aunt Mary, though I don't remember seeing any suitors around her! Donk will say things like that sometimes, and silly Georgie will sulk, because apparently nothing could be worse than the prospect of his mother ever remarrying. "We are fine as we are," he'd pout when we were younger, and I knew, even though he never clarified, that I was part of that "we" – we are a family after all, however unconventional, and I can't blame Georgie for not wanting to make space for others in it. Still, it seems unfair somehow: I know Dad almost remarried once, and even though I was very young, I remember how happy he seemed with Miss Edmunds, back before it all went sour. If Georgie had seen his mum smile like that at a good man, a man who cared for her, perhaps he'd want her to get married too. I rather agree with my grandfather, though: I don't think Aunt Mary wants to get married – her real smiles, the ones that reach her eyes, she only reserves for Georgie and her parents and Dad and I._

 _As for Dad…. Well, last time I tried to talk to him about whether_ he _would ever remarry – I am not a child any longer, I can speak about those things! - he got offended and sulked just as badly as Georgie, which if you ask me is not a good look in a grown man._

 _"_ _People do wonder…" Granny said, right before they reached the foot of the main stairs. She didn't finish the sentence, but gave Donk one of her significant looks, the ones that imply that he already knows how that sentence should end._

 _"_ _You_ _wonder," he answered back. "I'd almost say you were certain, you just don't want to admit it."_

 _Well,_ I _wondered what they meant, but then it was time for the party to split, and Marigold wanted to show me her new dresses and Maggie wanted me to play with her, so I went up the stairs. I never did learn what those rumors were – perhaps I ought to ask Mr. Barrow when we get back. Surely he'd know?_

 _Not all the adults stayed downstairs though. Dad came up to the nursery with me, because Peter wanted to show him his new model airplane collection and wouldn't wait until tea time. I don't mean to speak ill of Uncle Bertie, of course, but I know in moments like that that I have the best father in the whole world, because he is funny and kind and never treats us as a chore. Today, he plonked himself down on the nursery floor with Peter and Maggie and baby Bobbie as if he was a child himself, while their nanny looked on scandalized. Perhaps other daughters would be jealous, but I am not: I can be generous, even if Georgie rolls his eyes when I say so. Aunt Edith told me Dad used to do that in the nursery with us back in the day, and he'd often drag her and Aunt Mary with him. I wish I could remember that – my elegant Aunts in their fine dresses sitting on the floor playing with little toy soldiers is a sight I'd like to see - but I must have been very young. My recollections of my childhood start well after Aunt Edith and Marigold left the house, with Georgie and I chasing each other in the grounds, sometimes with dear Donk's old Labrador Tiia running ahead while our parents walked behind us. We had been too young to know what we didn't have back then; I had a Daddy I didn't mind sharing with my cousin, he had a Mummy who'd kiss my cheek and call me darling Sybbie, and we had each other to play with. It was all perfectly normal, really, if you didn't think about it too hard._

 _May 3_ _rd_ _, 1933_

 _Aunt Edith's guests arrived this morning. I know because I saw them arrive from the window, though I didn't get the chance to meet them until the afternoon. Just as well, as Marigold had already briefed me on the guest list, and what she didn't know, I learnt from the ladies maid. It seems I am not missing much. Just your average crowd of rich people, I suppose, talking about other rich people while they go off riding or shooting or something of the sort. Not one of them a proper Londoner. Not a writer in sight. I know Dad wouldn't like it if I made a comment like that (even though he can't hide his own discomfort all that well), so I keep these comments to myself. It is all true, though. The ladies, it should be said, were very finely dressed. It was quite the fashion parade to spy from the upper floors, as they went upstairs in their travelling outfits to change for shooting, and back upstairs again to change into light, delicate dresses for tea, with their hair loosely curled in that soft and pretty way you see in the pictures of fashion magazines. The children and I were paraded for the guests during teatime, as is the custom. I did my best to mingle and nod politely and drink my tea the way Granny taught me, though – it does not matter if one resents them, one should not give them the satisfaction of letting them think you are in any way inferior. I heard Mr. Barrow said that once, when Georgie and I were creeping downstairs, and I always rather liked it. So, even if they think me a child, I shall act like a fine lady and show them they were wrong about me._

 _Even if their conversation is terribly boring._

 _But in the end, none of that mattered, as the castle offers plenty of entertainment (even if one cannot make the acquaintance of Mrs. Woolf in it). In fact, Marigold and I had been planning an expedition of sorts for this very night - in truth, it was Georgie's idea, but without our cousin it would fall on us girls to be daring adventurers._

 _Once my little cousins slept soundly and most people had retired to bed after dinner, Marigold and I put on our coats over our nightgowns and became spies! We crept into the East Wing of the castle, the area that hasn't been in use for years. It was the strangest thing… . I thought once we were down there I'd have fun telling Marigold some spooky ghost story and we'd have a good laugh – and it was terribly exciting, especially sneaking there without being seen. But mostly, when we got there, it just made me solemn and a bit sad. It was so strange to see the grand rooms emptied out! Only the bulkier furniture remained, covered in dusty white cloth. The place was quite drafty and dark; even the fine wallpaper was discolored and torn. I had asked Uncle Bertie before, why so many rooms in the castle were not used - so many more than in Downton, even though Uncle Bertie and Aunt Edith often receive guests. And he said it was just too costly to manage such a large castle, and that it didn't really matter since they didn't need so many rooms for entertaining anyway. It made me think of our home, with the ground floor rooms always done up and ready for use even though we don't receive visitors often. It must be very costly too, to keep the parlor just so, and the library, and the dining room, and the drawing room, and all those other rooms when it's really just the five of us when Georgie is stuck at school. In a few months, I might be off to school myself (and won't that be exciting – I won't have to take my lessons with that stuffy old governess Granny hired anymore) and then there will only be my grandparents and Dad and Aunt Mary in the grand old house. I think I understand now, why Dad sometimes frowns when Aunt Mary gets snippy and says discussing money at dinner-time is crass, but he looks worried rather than angry and lets her change the subject._

 _I've been trying to picture it since I went to bed last night: Downton cold and empty and dark, with the grand piano no one plays anymore under its own white shroud. The pictures on the mantelpiece of Aunt Mary and Uncle Matthew's wedding, my mother and my aunts in their matching hats and parasols before the War, Dad and I standing with Georgie in front of our new car… all those pictures in their fancy frames forlorn, collecting dust. I've always known Downton isn't really mine – it's meant for Georgie, though I sometimes wonder whether he even wants it – but I like to think that when I leave it behind it will stay as it is now, waiting for me to visit: warm and welcoming and bright, with Donk's fine books and the staff's secret stash of treats for me and Georgie and Granny's marvel of a closet, which I am sometimes allowed to visit. It is a scary thought, to think of a time when my grandparents may be gone, when I will be too old to come downstairs to exchange gossip with Mr. Barrow, when my grandmother's fine clothes and my grandfather's library and every pretty thing I am used to might just sit there abandoned in the dark. I cannot imagine Georgie lording over a silent old house. It's easier somehow to imagine Aunt Mary there, grave as she sometimes gets when she looks out of the window lost in thought, and it makes me feel sad and a little guilty too, for thinking of leaving her behind in such a lonesome place._

 _May 4_ _th_ _1933_

 _Our little expedition seems to have left Marigold and I in a strange sort of mood. I didn't think she looked quite so affected when we were poking around the East Wing, but when we got back to her bedroom she looked jumpy and distracted, and she's been like that ever since. She lagged behind me when we were going up the stairs – she probably panicked when she heard the library door open when we were going up, even though she could have dashed without being seen by crouching behind the banister as I did. I asked her later if she saw who had almost caught us, but she was weirdly evasive and wouldn't tell me._

 _Still, it wasn't all as dreary as that. Aunt Edith's sending me back to Downton with a lot of new novels and a new journal, since I am close to finishing this one already! And we had quite a bit of fun this afternoon, when Uncle Bertie let us play with the Gramophone and all their records. I had little Bobbie propped up on my hip when the adults came in, and I was pretending to dance the tango while grabbing his chubby little hand, swaying this way and that like Aunt Rose showed us last year for Christmas. Everyone seemed delighted, even Aunt Mary, who said that was not the sort of thing you danced in polite company the first time Aunt Rose brought it up. I told Marigold to join us in our make-shift ballroom but she was embarrassed, and would only agree to leave the sidelines when Uncle Bertie put on another record and invited Granny to dance with him. That was so funny! I put Bobbie down, because he is quite heavy now, and I thought I'd push Dad to join us, but when I turned around I saw I was too late. He had that gleam he gets in his eye when he is about to say something bold, and he made a show of extending his hand to Aunt Mary while Peter and Maggie giggled and clapped. I was sure Aunt Mary would scold him but she did not, and before I knew it they were gliding around the room for our benefit. Everyone seemed to find it charming and was watching them dance, and I was too, but it was strange for me as well. In truth, I could barely recognize them! Dad was leading Aunt Mary quite confidently while Uncle Bertie laughed and said his brother in law was making him look bad._

 _Perhaps he danced with my mother like this once, back when Dad was young and in love with the loveliest girl he'd ever met, as he always says. I've seen pictures of them, of course: Dad always looks so young in them, standing defiantly in his wedding suit as if daring the camera to question what he was doing with Lady Sybil Crawley of Downton Abbey on his arm. In those pictures, my mother looks beautiful but reserved – it's my own face staring back at me, only not quite. Aunt Edith once told me I have my mother's features, but I frown like my father, and I laugh like him too. It makes sense, I think - after all, I've never seen my mother do either of those things: the polite half smile of an old-fashioned portrait is the only expression of hers I'll ever know. It is nice to imagine her like this, dancing with the man she married, laughing with her cheeks pink and not a care in the whole wide world._

 _I hope people didn't see me stare and look sad; as luck would have it, Aunt Edith arrived then, with some of her glamorous friends, and we were all a bit embarrassed at acting quite so silly in front of strangers. No one seemed more embarrassed than Aunt Mary, who got wary and cold and let go of Dad's hand. For a moment I was curious and thought of following the adults out of the room (they may not be all that interesting, but I can hardly be expected to play with my little cousins all day when I am almost thirteen!) but I caught sight of Marigold being strange again and stood in her way before she went off with a book somewhere._

 _"_ _What is it?" I asked. She went red._

 _"_ _I can't tell you. Not here, anyway."_

 _A secret! That is exactly what this journal is in short supply of: nothing of much interest happens back at home after all. I wondered if it was about the guests from London: they hadn't seemed all that alluring or glamorous in truth, but you never know! But Marigold shook her head when I asked her and wouldn't look me in the eye. I finally got her to promise me that she'd tell me later tonight. What could it be?_

 **Author's note: Updates are bound to decrease in frequency in these few weeks (damn real life and other fandoms for getting in the way) but I will not abandon this, trust me on that. As usual, thank you for the kind words and reviews - I truly appreciate them!**


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